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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057602">And We'd Have Everything</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everren/pseuds/Everren'>Everren</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, F/M, Forbidden Love, Grief/Mourning, Las Vegas, Poe Dameron is a spice runner, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey Palpatine, Smuggler Ben Solo, So is Ben, The Empire Hotel and Casino, The Major Character Death tag is for Han and Leia who both died before the story began</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:55:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057602</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everren/pseuds/Everren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Solo does what needs to be done to keep his head above water. He always has. However, when he gatecrashes a party at Sheev Palpatine's famous Empire Hotel and Casino, fate steps in and changes <i>everything</i>.</p><p>A modern day au Smuggler Ben/ Rey Palpatine story.</p><p>**Currently on hiatus**</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Reylo Theme Event</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. What about the pants?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The deaths of two major characters are mentioned in this first chapter (and will be referred to throughout the story, since they've had a profound effect on Ben and will play an important role in his character development) but, please rest assured, I don't plan on killing anyone else off.</p><p>The Graphic Violence warning is for much later in the fic but I wanted you to be aware that it'll be part of the story before you start reading, just in case it's a deal breaker for you. When the time comes, it'll be fairly short and I'll give adequate warning/instructions on how to skip it if you'd rather not deal with that kind of thing.</p><p>I'd like to say a big thank you to my dear friend <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_bitchcraft">dr_bitchcraft</a> for cheering me on and convincing me to have a go at writing fanfiction (if it sucks, you also know who to blame... IMEANWHAT). I'd also like to thank <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse17/pseuds/Erulisse17">Erulisse17</a>, for beta reading the majority of this chapter, and my 'Forbidden Love' buddies in The Writing Den, for helping me brainstorm ideas and for proof-reading the results.</p><p>Without further ado, let's do this thing! Please let me know what you think in the comments.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two large hands meet with a clap and Ben leans in to bump shoulders with the doorman, Kaleesh, who stands guard outside the tradesman’s entrance to the Empire. A prosthetic arm, earned by the older man in Desert Storm, wraps around Ben and he feels a jarring, metallic slap on his back.</p><p>“How’s it going, Solo?”</p><p><em> How </em> <b> <em>is</em> </b> <em> it going? </em> </p><p>“Could be worse,” Ben replies, drawing back with a casual shrug.</p><p>Although the words have become an automated response whenever anyone asks the sort of question that requires introspection, he’s not exactly lying; things <em> could </em> be worse. </p><p>Sure, his dad, the guy he’s spent his whole life idolizing and trying to live up to, is dead - cancer, of all the things that could have finally grounded Han fucking Solo - and Ben’s been left to drown in a bottomless well of inherited debt and bad promises but at least he still has a roof over his head and food in his belly. He still has the Falcon. He still has his wits and his resourcefulness. Dammit, he’s still a Solo and he’ll find a way to make it all work out. </p><p>Things could be worse.</p><p>Kaleesh hacks out a cough and beats his chest with his metal hand, oblivious to Ben’s navel gazing. Pulmonary scarring, the former marine had told him once; shrapnel from the same landmine that had taken his arm and retired him from the military had ripped into his lung and left him with a lasting cough that would put any smoker to shame. Ben waits for it to pass, knowing better than to try to offer any comfort.</p><p>“You here to see Dameron?” It’s more of a bark than a question.</p><p>Ben nods. “Alright if I go in?”</p><p>Kaleesh gives a shrug that says, <em> You know my policy. </em> Ben does know. Getting into the Empire has never been a problem - Kaleesh is happy to look the other way in return for a lined handshake - but if he gets caught somewhere he shouldn’t be, doing something he shouldn’t be doing, Ben knows he’s on his own. Kaleesh may have been a military man once but he didn’t bring a sense of camaraderie back from Iraq with him. In fact, from the glimpses of innate ruthlessness he’s seen in the other man over the years he’s known him, Ben would guess he didn’t take one out there in the first place.</p><p>“Not that you’ll get anything useful out of him,” the doorman adds, a smirk twisting his scarred and waxy face. “It’s carnage in there tonight.”</p><p>Ben grimaces - it’s nearly impossible to get into the kitchen unnoticed when it’s busy - but he reaches into the pocket of his pants anyway and pulls out the twenty dollar bill he has folded ready. He holds it between his pointer and middle fingers and passes it to Kaleesh discreetly, purposefully turning his wide shoulders so the camera behind him, trained on the entrance, can’t see what he’s doing. </p><p>Carnage or no carnage, he has to see Poe; it can’t wait, even if it is costing him his last twenty dollars.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The Empire is as massive and sprawling as any of the hotels on the Strip and back-of-house is a maze of passageways and narrow staircases. The corridors down here in the hotel’s underbelly are stark, white and utilitarian, very unlike the opulence of the public spaces, where the shiny, black floors reflect the glimmer of metallic furnishings, leather armchairs cluster around low tables, near marble-topped bars lined with stools, and jewel-bright slot machines sound their merciless siren calls to guileless passers-by. If someone didn’t have their wits about them, it would be easy to get lost in a place like this. </p><p>Ben knows where he’s going. He makes a habit of frequenting kitchens and break rooms up and down the Strip - it’s where he’s met some of his most useful contacts - and he learned early on that it’s useful to know your way around when you’re trying to keep under the radar. He walks with his head down, waves of black hair falling across his eyes and concealing his angular features, his hands tucked nonchalantly into his pockets. Despite his height and sheer broadness, he presents an inconspicuous figure for the security cameras.</p><p>Ben hears the noise of the kitchen while he’s still half way down the corridor. Kaleesh clearly hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said it was carnage. A youngish guy dressed all in white - the standard uniform of wait staff in the Empire’s many bars, lounges and restaurants - makes to overtake Ben but he catches him before he does and asks, quickly, if he can find Poe Dameron and tell him his business partner’s waiting in the hallway. The man gives a beleaguered huff but agrees, disappearing through the kitchen doors while Ben hangs back, finding a comfortable-looking wall to lean against to wait.</p><p>He’s been waiting and leaning, leaning and waiting, for maybe ten minutes when Poe finally appears, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel as he pulls his white Chef’s hat off and stuffs it into a pocket.</p><p>“You really do have the worst timing, buddy,” Poe says, beckoning Ben to follow him through a side door and out into a little, gated courtyard lined with dumpsters. </p><p>“I told you I was going to come by tonight,” Ben reminds him casually, kicking away from the wall and trailing after his friend.</p><p>“I know, I know.” Poe upends an empty crate and perches on it as he lights a cigarette he’s just pulled from a pocket beneath his apron. “Better make it quick, though,” he adds in a mumble, checking that the cherry is alight. “No one’s getting official breaks tonight. The big cheese himself is upstairs with his cronies.”</p><p>Ben’s eyebrows rise. “What? Palpatine?”</p><p>Poe nods, taking a deep drag before blowing out a thick column of smoke. </p><p>“Rolled in last night, no warning, no nothing, and announced that he would be hosting <em> ‘a few friends </em>’ in the Galaxy tonight. A few friends, my ass. He’s brought half the Hamptons with him.” The last couple of sentences are delivered in grumbled undertones and Ben’s lips quirk upwards at Poe’s obvious and entirely predictable bad mood.</p><p>Ben has known Poe his whole life. There’s only three years between them but the age advantage was something Poe never let him forget as they grew up, playing space explorers together and climbing the massive tree in Poe’s parents’ yard. It’s probably because of this ingrained hierarchy that Ben still patiently listens while Poe (frequently and repetitively) voices his deep-seated disdain for his boss, billionaire owner of the Empire chain of hotels, Sheev Palpatine. </p><p>It’s not that Ben blames him. Palpatine is a famously sly and ruthless businessman and although he supposedly had humble beginnings back in Britain, it’s said you wouldn’t know it from the lack of care and respect he now shows those beneath him. To Poe, who has always fervently believed in social justice and equality, that’s as good as a red rag to a bull. Ben has often thought it must make receiving his paycheck, at the end of every month, a uniquely uncomfortable experience for him.</p><p>“So you’re busy then?” Ben asks teasingly. Poe just raises him a withering glare as he lets out another lungful of pungent smoke. </p><p>“I’ll be quick,” he laughs in reassurance, holding up his wide palms to placate the beast. “I just need to know where you’ve stored the spice.”</p><p>Poe’s dark eyebrows draw together in confusion. </p><p>“What do you mean, where I’ve stored it? You didn’t get my message?”</p><p>Ben can feel a sinking feeling in his stomach, the mirth falling from his face as his expression changes to mirror Poe’s.</p><p>“What message?”</p><p>“I called you. You need to learn to check your voicemail, buddy.”</p><p>“Shit,” Ben swears, delving in his pocket for his phone. The screen is cracked, only held together by two filmy protectors layered one on top of the other, and black lines run up and down the display when it’s lit up. One of the fault lines lies right over the icon which tells Ben when he’s missed a call. “<em> Shit! </em> You haven’t got it?” he guesses, looking up at Poe with a new, panicked timbre to his deep voice.</p><p>“Chewie called and said it wasn’t ready,” Poe defended.</p><p>“Well, how long’s it gonna be?”</p><p>“Not long.” Poe’s trying to calm him down now, Ben can tell. He’s taken on that tone of voice he adopts when Ben’s on the verge of losing his cool - authoritative but kind, no nonsense, the one that says, <em> I’m three years older than you and that means I’m in charge </em>. </p><p>Ben first noticed Poe doing it in the days after his mom had died, when Han had been busy making funeral arrangements and drowning his own grief and Ben had been left to come to terms with the loss on his own. Poe had been his lifeline. He’d understood what he was going through - he’d been there himself only a couple of years before - and he’d been determined that Ben was going to get through it without turning all his pain inwards, as he was wont to do whenever things went wrong. As he still is, if he’s honest with himself.</p><p>Ben takes a deep breath.</p><p>“How long is ‘Not long’?”</p><p>“He said it’d be ready before this weekend,” Poe reassures him, before tentatively adding, “Except <em> you’ll </em> have to fly down to get it now, that’s all.” </p><p>Ben feels his blood pressure rising again. </p><p>
  <em>"What?"</em>
</p><p>“What? It’s not like I’m going to get the time off now, is it? Not with the motherfucking Emperor in the house.”</p><p>“I haven’t flown the T-70 in nearly a year!” Ben explodes, his hand rising to rake anxiously through his hair. “<em>You’re</em> the runner.”</p><p>“You’ll be fine,” Poe says, dismissing his worry with a casual shrug. “It’s like riding a bicycle.” </p><p>Ben is sure that flying a plane is <em>not</em> like riding a bicycle but, without the spice, he knows he’s as good as dead when Kanjiklub and the Guavian Death Gang catch up with him. Not for the first time, he silently berates his father’s taste in business associates.</p><p>“There you are!”</p><p>Ben and Poe both look up to see Finn’s head poking around the edge of the door, looking relieved. Poe often says that meeting Finn was the only good thing to have come out of his being held hostage by the Empire and their damn employee dental plan. Ben can’t help but agree. He’s never said as much but he can see the way his best friend lights up when the young waiter is around. The effect is only more obvious now that they live together.</p><p>“Krennic’s freaking out,” Finn says quickly, adding, “Hi Ben,” as an afterthought, with a nod of greeting. “He says he can’t find your vol au vent pastry, that the satay skewers are drying out and, if you’re not back before the next lot of sliders are on the pass, he’s going to start firing people, beginning with you… and maybe me. Oh God, do you think he’ll fire me? <em>Can</em> he fire me?”</p><p>“Fuck,” Poe curses, stepping on the unsmoked half of his cigarette as he stands up. The crate clatters back to the ground behind him. “I <em>told</em> him the pastry’s resting in the fridge and those skewers should have gone out five minutes ago!”</p><p>Poe makes to go back inside, adjusting the towel over his shoulder, but stops, glancing back at Ben.</p><p>“Since you’re lurking around, you might as well make yourself useful,” he says. “Carry some plates up to the lounge for me?”</p><p>Ben scrunches his face up and begins to decline but Poe is too quick.</p><p>“I’ll give you an extra two percent of the cut.”</p><p>“You should be giving me an extra ten percent, considering you want me to smuggle the stuff <em>and</em> sell it.” </p><p>Poe purses his lips and considers for a moment before giving a decisive nod.</p><p>“Alright. Ten.” He holds out his hand and, after a moment’s pause, Ben shakes it with a resigned sigh.</p><p>“I’m gonna stand out like a sore thumb,” he warns, following Finn and Poe back into the corridor, leaving the smell of smoke and garbage behind them.</p><p>“Get the man a tie, will you, baby?” Poe says to Finn, who, in turn, digs around in the pocket of his white suit jacket and pulls out an equally colorless bow tie, just like the one he’s wearing. </p><p>“Spare,” he explains, throwing it towards Ben, who catches it reflexively. He supposes, when your uniform is all white, it makes sense to have a contingency plan up your sleeve… or in your pocket, as it were. </p><p>“What about the pants?” Ben asks, still sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “Shouldn’t they be white, not black?”</p><p>Both Poe and Finn run critical eyes up the length of him, all six foot three, then Finn shrugs and Poe says, “Close enough.”.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The two months Ben spent waiting tables at the Cantonica when he was twenty one obviously set him in good stead for tonight, he realises, as he navigates his way up the stairs from the kitchen to the Galaxy Bar and Lounge. If anything, his forearms are broader now, which can only be helping him balance the two large and heavy platters. </p><p>A few waiters hurry past him, all wearing white bow ties like the one Finn had tossed him, the one which is now casually irritating his windpipe, and they turn sideways as they pass to avoid jostling him. Ben appreciates the gesture. He’s rusty at this waiting business, far more used to balancing a keg of beer on each arm now than fine china, and the platters wobble more than once before he crests the top of the stairs and backs his way through the double doors into the lounge. </p><p>Noise presses in on him from all sides, the chatter of voices rising above the syncopated rhythm of a jazz number, played on a sleek and shiny black grand piano which is raised up on a dais towards the corner of the room. Ben spots the food table and navigates his way through the moving obstacle course of people. </p><p>Three more trips up and down the stairs to the kitchen and all Ben’s platters are safely nestled amongst the plates of caviar and delicately sliced salmon en croute. He straightens and takes the opportunity to look around the room properly for the first time. </p><p>He’s no stranger to gatherings like this, although he doesn’t think he’s ever actually been to one <em>invited</em>. Still, invited or not, Ben knows that parties are always a good place to scout for business. That’s the thing with rich people, he’s found: they’re always looking for someone else to do their dirty work. Luckily, Ben is good at rolling up his sleeves and getting mucky.</p><p>Since 'business', right now, could be the one thing that saves him from dying in the fiery wreckage of a plane he isn't confident he remembers how to fly, Ben reaches up to his throat and pulls Finn's tie loose, casually tucking it into his pocket as he ducks between two bejewelled women in cocktail dresses and becomes one with the crowd. Sure, his black hair is a little longer and more unkempt than most of the other men in the room, perhaps his shoes a little less shiny, but he’d known what he was doing when he’d dressed to visit the Empire, even if he hadn't planned to stray quite this deep into the lion’s den. </p><p>Ben had discovered a long time ago that a nicely tailored, white button-down, paired with black shoes and pants and properly styled for the situation - tucked in or untucked, buttoned to the collar or left loose to the clavicle (or even the chest in some circles), sleeves rolled up or down - can make him blend in almost anywhere he wants to in Vegas. </p><p>He pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his other pocket as he walks and tucks them into the ‘v’ of his open shirt collar to add to the effect. They’re Ray Bans, or at least, they’re damn good counterfeits; so good that he doubts any of the people in this room, draped in their Armani and Gucci, could tell the difference in a straight comparison.</p><p>One of the white-clad waiters passes with a tray of canapés and Ben grabs one to test his cover. He’s pleased when he’s given nothing more than a courteous nod. Devouring the small bit of toast, topped with a slice of fig on black olive tapenade<em> - Could be worse,</em> he thinks -, in one bite, he saunters over to a group of men who seem to be discussing the difference in torque between Upsilon- and Lambda-class V8 engines. </p><p>Ben nods along with the group, smiling when they smile, laughing when they laugh, thinking to himself that he couldn’t have picked a more mind-numbing conversation to integrate himself into if he’d tried. Its only redeeming factor is that the men are so engrossed in their subject matter that they seem content to all but ignore Ben. It gives him the chance to scan the room in peace.</p><p>He notices that most of the guests either gravitate towards or make a conscious effort to stay away from one of the booths at the other end of the lounge, close to the doors out to the terrace. He wonders if that’s where Palpatine is sitting. It would make sense. Poe had said this whole shindig is for him, a chance for the Emperor to survey his Empire whilst surrounded by the usual flurry of sycophants that seem instinctively drawn to the super-rich. </p><p>Ben isn’t interested in trying to talk to the man himself. From what he knows of Palpatine, he’s not the sort of person Ben wants to risk getting entangled with. He also isn’t likely to think much of someone like him, with a less than legitimate reason for being in the hotel to begin with, sneaking into his private function, even though Ben would guess that <em>he</em> has more honest intentions than many of the invited guests. </p><p>He is curious, however, and curiosity has always had a habit of getting the better of him. He supposes it’s genetic. In any case, he doesn’t bother fighting it much any more.</p><p>Another waiter walks past, this time with a tray of full champagne flutes, and Ben uses it as the perfect opportunity to twist away from the torque group, grabbing a glass on his way towards the terrace. </p><p>He takes up a position leaning against one of the window frames and sips his champagne slowly as he watches the occupants of the booth. Palpatine is unmistakable. Even if Ben hadn’t seen photographs of him in Time magazine, he’d be able to tell which one he is. He’s dressed in a sumptuous-looking, red, velvet suit jacket, with a shirt and silk tie in a slightly lighter shade of crimson underneath. His white hair is pushed back from his high forehead, no doubt to cover a balding spot at the crown, and his sharp, intelligent features exude a kind of charisma as he speaks to the little crowd around him. </p><p>Ben knows <em>that</em> kind of confidence only comes with years of experience and an intrinsic belief that you’re the most important person in the room. It’s the kind of confidence which isn’t too hard to find in Vegas, if you look for it. Ben thinks he can do a fair impression of it when pressed but even his best effort would never fool someone like Palpatine. </p><p>Seated around the hotel magnate is a mix of unlikely looking characters. To his left, there’s a very prim and proper-looking red headed man, dressed all in black, who seems to be delivering an impassioned tirade to a younger, dark-haired man who, frankly, looks terrified that he’s even there. Ben’s attention is drawn, however, to the elderly, bald man who sits at Palpatine’s right. He’s wearing what looks like a gold, silk kimono over a light grey - silver, maybe -  shirt and he leans in now and then to speak in what Ben guesses are hushed tones. Ben feels sure he wouldn’t be able to pick up what the man is saying even if he was sat at the table with the rest of the group and he finds he’s not particularly sorry for that. The bald man gives him the creeps, an assessment which is reaffirmed when his gaze lifts to meet Ben’s eyes with an icy stare. Ben looks away and quickly hides his face in his champagne glass. </p><p>By the time he chances a glance back, Gold Kimono is deep in conversation with a stern-looking gentleman with iron grey hair and deep lines that run from the sides of his nose to the corners of his downturned mouth. It’s almost as if his attention had never strayed outside the booth and Ben is left feeling vaguely unsettled.</p><p>There are a few younger women at the table too, although they’re at artfully convenient intervals, as though someone has placed them there for set dressing rather than for their conversation. He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He’s worked the door in enough bars and strip clubs to be entirely used to the casual sexism that rolls through this town as naturally as tumbleweeds through the desert. Still, it never fails to rankle. </p><p>As he watches, one of the women, one who’d been sitting with her back to him, stands up from the table and edges her way out of the booth. Ben can see an expanse of lightly tanned skin where her white dress leaves her back exposed before fanning out over her hips. The tails of a halter bow hang down between her shoulder blades and she has dark hair, the color of chocolate, which bounces in soft waves, just brushing the tops of her shoulders as she moves. When she steps out from behind the bench seat, he can see that her dress falls in layers of floaty chiffon all the way down to her slender ankles, where it meets a pair of heeled and strappy, white sandals - Louboutins, if the red sole is anything to judge by. </p><p>Ben watches, spellbound, as she begins to walk away, vaguely aware that he’s being as shallow as the men he was just mentally berating. Still, he can’t quite bring himself to look away.</p><p>She moves like a ray of light through the dim lounge, the brilliant white of her dress standing out against the dark, sultry outfits of the other guests. He finds himself following in her wake, drawn by an invisible thread, suddenly terrified to lose sight of her. He hasn’t even seen her face yet but he is filled with the unshakable feeling that he needs to know her.</p><p>She’s heading for the exit, he realises, and he speeds up a little to keep up with her.</p><p>His shoulder collides with someone, a drink spills, splashing over the toe of his shoe, and Ben has to stop to mumble a hasty apology. When he looks up again, the girl has disappeared. </p><p>The lounge doors she’d been heading for are still swinging on their hinges, so he darts around the last few people separating him from the exit and slips out into the casino after her. </p><p>There are two big, burly security guards standing to either side of the double doors, both dressed head to toe in black, save for their ties. One - a swarthy man with a no-nonsense set to his jaw - has a red tie. The other - an Amazonian woman with bleached-blonde hair which is slicked back on her head, giving her a severe look -  silver. They are both almost as tall as Ben’s six foot three inches and just as broad around the shoulders. </p><p>Ben does his best to look natural as he glances quickly around the casino floor for any glimpse of white chiffon.</p><p>He spots it, just a flash before she disappears around a corner, but it’s enough for him to hasten after her. </p><p>Curiosity and determination drive him forwards; the thrill of the chase gripping him fully now, and he can feel adrenaline pumping through his body. He needs to see her face, even if only once. He needs to know why he’s drawn to this stranger.</p><p>He turns the corner and finds himself in a corridor lined with elevator doors.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>His eyes dart from closed door to closed door before flicking up to the digital displays above, trying to see if any of the numbers which indicate the floors are moving. </p><p>The elevator nearest seems to be descending from the tenth floor but all the others are stationary. As he watches, another starts to move - going upwards from the seventh floor. </p><p>She can’t be in either of them.</p><p>Ben lifts a hand to run through his hair in frustration.</p><p>“Are you following me?”</p><p>The sound of an alto voice from behind him, with a gently lilting accent (British, he thinks), makes Ben’s heart skip a beat. He knows it’s her, even before he turns to see a figure in white moving out from the shadows created by a large, indoor fern in an enormous, gilt pot near the entrance to the elevator lobby. He feels his lips part as his eyes are finally free to roam over her face. </p><p>Her dark eyebrows are drawn together in a hard glare, carving little furrows into her forehead, where a smattering of freckles have escaped to from the cluster across her nose and cheeks.</p><p>Ben realises he’s been gawping for a second too long at the same moment as her eyebrows rise, as though to say, <em> Well? </em></p><p>“Do you want the honest answer or the answer that sounds less creepy?”</p><p>The girl doesn’t look impressed. Ben doesn’t blame her. He gives an apologetic wince, that hand raking through his hair again but for an entirely different reason.</p><p>“Honestly, yes, I was following you.”</p><p>“Why?” Her reply comes quickly and Ben runs his tongue over his lower lip as he tries to come up with an answer.</p><p>“I wanted to meet you,” he says with a lame shrug.</p><p>“Why?” the girl demands again.</p><p>Ben is at a loss.</p><p>“Because…” <em> I saw you get up from your table and found your behind so enchanting that I felt compelled to follow you across a lounge, out of a pair of double doors, past two very intimidating security guards and through a casino, not to mention the fact that I was preparing to take an elevator to every floor between here and the roof, just for a chance to find out who you are? The fuck, Ben?  </em></p><p>“Because, if I hadn’t, <em> not </em> meeting you would have been the thing that haunted me for the rest of my life.”</p><p>The girl’s expression loosens slightly into something that resembles wariness as opposed to outright hostility. Ben can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears as she surveys him.</p><p>“It’s not nice being hunted by some faceless man, you know,” she says coolly, a sharpness to her tone. Ben has the good grace to feel appropriately scolded.</p><p>There’s a long moment of silence, during which Ben thinks to himself that he has definitely blown this, before she adds, more curiously than angrily, “Who are you?”</p><p>“Ben,” he replies quickly. “I’m Ben. Solo.” It doesn’t occur to him to lie to her.</p><p>“You weren’t supposed to be in there, were you, <em> Ben Solo? </em>” </p><p>Her hazel eyes are narrowed slightly but bright and alive. She seems keenly interested in his answer, or perhaps in proving the accuracy of her own assertion. </p><p>She certainly has him flustered - she’s had him flustered from the moment her bare shoulders had risen above the edge of Palpatine’s booth - and Ben has to scrabble around for the ability to answer with any degree of feigned nonchalance.</p><p>“What makes you say that?” </p><p>“I approved the guest list.” </p><p>Ben’s eyes flutter shut with a silent groan. When he opens them again, he finds the girl watching him with a small smirk on her lips. His shoulders lift in a little shrug as he shows her his two palms in surrender.</p><p>“<em>And</em> you’re wearing a pair of knock-off Ray Bans,” the girl adds, lifting a finger to point at the sunglasses hanging from his shirt. “That’s a bold move at one of Palpatine’s parties. He can smell bullshit from three hundred yards. None of that lot in there would have the balls.”</p><p>It’s Ben’s turn to narrow his eyes now, in wonder as much as curiosity. </p><p>“Who are you?” he asks, shaking his head a little in reverence.</p><p>“I’m obviously not going to tell you that,” she replies with a scoff (but not wholly unkindly, he doesn’t think). </p><p>“You know who <em> I </em> am.”</p><p>“Right. <em> You’re </em> a brazen interloper who thought it was appropriate to follow a girl he’s never met across a crowded casino and into a deserted corridor.”</p><p>She has an incredibly fair point.</p><p>“Well, of course it sounds bad when you say it like that,” he mumbles sheepishly.</p><p>She purses her lips and gives him a satisfied look before she turns and heads back towards the casino floor. Ben starts at her sudden exit and quickly follows her.</p><p>“Wait! How can I make this right?” he asks, jogging a couple of steps to catch up with her. </p><p>“You can stop following me, for starters,” she replies, looking back at him pointedly over her tanned shoulder.</p><p>Ben realises that he’s put himself in an impossible situation. If he follows her, he’s just proving he’s <em> that </em> creep. If he doesn’t, he’ll have to watch her walk away from him, knowing he’ll potentially never see her again. He still doesn’t even know her name. But if he follows her…</p><p>Ben slows down then eventually stops, giving a resigned sigh, as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. The girl’s dark eyebrow rises in a high arch and, if he isn’t mistaken, her mouth quirks upwards at the corners in a slight smile before she turns her head away from him and continues back towards the Galaxy Bar and Lounge. Ben, once again, finds himself tracking the brightness of her as she moves across the room, leaving him behind. </p><p>He takes a few more slow steps, masochistically wanting to see the moment when she disappears from view behind those double doors, but, before she slips back into the lounge, she stops beside the security guards and leans in to say something to the man in the red tie. Both his and the tall woman’s eyes immediately train on Ben and, before he even has a chance to straighten up and realise what’s happening, the pair of them have started across the casino floor towards him.</p><p>His instinct is to run, to try to evade the two security guards who now seem entirely focused on hockey tackling him, but that would mean losing sight of the girl and there’s something about the way she looks at him, as she pushes her way back into the lounge, that holds him enraptured.</p><p>The last thing he sees, before strong arms wrap around his biceps and turn him, roughly, towards the entrance, is breath clouding on the other side of a glass door panel and the tantalizing appearance of three letters.</p><p>R   E   Y</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! Thank you for getting this far down the page without bailing. </p><p>If you liked this first chapter and are interested in reading more - and, my goodness, there is more to come! - I plan on posting a new chapter every other week on Saturdays. </p><p>This is my first fic so please bear with me but, that being said, I do tend to work best when I'm held to account. In other words, feel free to guilt trip me into writing as much as you like.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Between you and me, I know a lot about hope.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><em>He’s done everything he can do now. He’s left it up to her, how their story continues, </em>if<em> it continues. She had said she’d felt like his prey earlier that evening and he’s done the only thing he could think of to make it right; he’s handed her a weapon to wound him with, offered the hunted the chance to become the hunter. All he can do now is wait impatiently to learn what her choice is.</em></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p>The thick fingers of the two security guards are wrapped around Ben’s arms like vises, circling his sizable biceps with relative ease and making it clear that he’s going nowhere but where he’s being directed. Ben doesn’t fight it. He’s too busy thinking about those three letters. </p><p>R   E   Y </p><p>On the long march from where she’d left him in the casino to the entrance lobby, just inside the black-glass revolving doors, where he is currently being unceremoniously deposited by the two security guards, he’s run over just about every meaning that the three letters could have. </p><p>Real earnings yield? </p><p>Religious education for youth? </p><p>Rob Eberhard Young?</p><p>None of them are likely, unless she’s particularly into acoustic guitar from the 90s. Somehow, Ben doubts it.</p><p>In which case, it must be a name. <em>Her</em> name.</p><p>Ben glances over his shoulder and watches the two guards disappear back into the casino, their black suits and wide shoulders slipping from view behind twinkling slot machines and blooms of cigarette smoke.</p><p><em>Sloppy,</em> Ben thinks with the doorman part of his brain. If they’d really wanted him off the premises, they should have seen him out onto the sidewalk and watched him walk at least a block down the street. Whether they were simply too eager to return to their post at the door to the Galaxy or whether Ben’s lack of resistance on their walk had given them the impression that he was nothing to worry about, their oversight serves him well. </p><p>Rather than exiting through the revolving doors, as he was clearly supposed to, Ben pulls his phone out of his pocket and melts into the embrace of the coffee bar just beside the entrance. He pours himself a free glass of water from the sugar station, one handed, and sinks into one of the black, leather bucket chairs that overlooks the bustling lobby, to scour Google on the Empire’s free wifi.</p><p>
  <em>Rey + Las Vegas</em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
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</blockquote><p>Ben runs his hand through his hair and tries again.</p><p>
  <em>Rey + Palpatine</em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><b>Image search:</b><br/>
 </p>
  <p><b>Rey Palpatine - Wikipedia</b><br/>
Aurelia “<em>Rey</em>” <em>Palpatine</em> (born April 21, 1999) is an English businesswoman, socialite and model. <em>Palpatine</em> is the only granddaughter of Sheev <em>Palpatine</em>, the founder and owner of Empire Hotels.</p>
  <p><b>Rey Palpatine - Heir to the Empire?</b><br/>
Is the twenty-one year old granddaughter of Sheev <em>Palpatine</em> being groomed to take over his hotel empire, worth billions? Does <em>Palpatine</em> have…</p>
</blockquote><p>Ben stares at the screen, his dark eyebrows creeping further and further up his forehead with each word he reads. Palpatine’s granddaughter? Of course she is. It explains her seat at his booth and her intimate knowledge of the party’s guest list. It also casts her reaction to him following her in a slightly new light. How often had she had to endure unwanted attention in her relatively short life? </p><p>A quick flick through Google’s image search function with the same keywords shows, amongst the more posed editorial photoshoot images, a whole host of paparazzi photographs, her white chiffon dress and bouncy, chocolate curls replaced with the jeans, tank tops, baseball caps and sunglasses of someone just trying to live their life while being hunted by the inhuman glare of camera lenses and flash bulbs.</p><p>Ben presses his lips together, his jaw working as he traces his thumb down the cracked phone screen. He wants to see her again, he still feels that indescribable yearning to <em>know</em> her, but he understands now that pursuing her is never going to be what she wants.</p><p>As he pushes his phone back into his pocket, he feels the gentle silk of the bow tie Finn had lent him. It whispers conspiratorially against the backs of his fingers. He pulls it out and looks down at it, a little frown forming on his brow as an idea blossoms in his mind.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>“I have Miss Palpatine’s dry cleaning,” Ben informs the flustered-looking receptionist, as he leans casually against the shiny, black, marble check-in desk, holding up a sealed garment bag.<p>“Okay. What do you want me to do about it?” the woman replies testily, her filled-in eyebrows lifting in high, accusatory arches.</p><p>Ben flaps the garment bag up onto the counter, garnering a flurry of sighs from the queue that’s quickly forming behind him. He’s purposely waited for a busy period to be sure he’ll have exactly this effect. </p><p>“Here,” he says, pointing at the clear plastic window which holds the dry cleaning ticket. Beneath the Empire’s six-spoked logo, which is stamped in black and red at the top of the card, a blue-inked scrawl reads: </p><p><em>MISS A. PALPATINE</em><br/>
FLOO …<br/>
SUITE …. </p><p>The writing at the bottom right hand corner of the tag has blurred where a few large droplets of water have set the ink pooling into unreadable puddles of indigo.</p><p>The receptionist rises out of her chair, muttering an apology to the tutting guests behind Ben, and peers down at the label beneath his pointing finger. She sighs. </p><p>“I can’t give you access to…”</p><p>“I have the key,” Ben cuts in, pulling an Empire key card out of his pocket to show her. “I just need the floor number and suite name.”</p><p>The receptionist gives Ben a withering look, her pearl grey eyes clearly running over the white bow tie at his throat then lower to the unsightly wrinkles that have formed in his white shirt. He’s suddenly very glad that the counter height masks the fact that his pants are black, rather than white. He gets the feeling that this is the kind of woman who would not agree with Poe and Finn that they’re ‘close enough’.</p><p>A short, squat gentleman standing directly behind Ben, with white hair sprouting proudly from either ear, as though it had got lost on the way to his head and decided to stay put regardless, clears his throat, making a point of sounding irritated. Ben could kiss him. The receptionist, no longer able to stomach the glares leveled her way and the risk of losing out on the tips that, even as they stand there in their silent stand-off, are being removed from between booking documents and ID cards, grumbles before scribbling something down on a scrap of Empire notepaper and sliding it across the counter to him.</p><p>“Thanks,” Ben says brightly, pocketing the paper and swinging the garment bag back down from the check-in desk. He tries his best to hold it in front of his legs as he retreats, letting the small, aurally-hirsute man take his place and assume the entirety of the receptionist’s attention.</p><p>Once he’s out of sight of the front desk, Ben returns the garment bag back to the rack where he’d found it, one of many empty bags waiting to be delivered to freshly serviced rooms. He’s careful to remove the improvised label he’d written (then artfully smudged), so as not to leave any evidence which might prompt a search of the hotel’s security footage. </p><p>On his way to the elevator lobby, he spots the large woman in fuchsia whose purse he’d swiped the key card from. She hasn’t moved from her perch at the slot machine she’s been steadily losing to for the last half hour. He swerves close to her and lets the key card fall from his hand onto the floor beside her stool. Someone will notice it there, he thinks, and she’ll have something to be grateful for in an evening full of losses and disappointments. </p><p>It isn’t until he’s alone in the elevator that he pulls the tie away from his neck again and returns it to his pocket, pulling out the paper instead. He feels a slight flutter in his chest as he unfolds the unassuming, white sheet and sees the few words and numbers scribbled there.</p><p>Floor 33, Sentinel Suite</p><p>The Sentinel Suite isn’t hard to find. It’s at the back of the hotel, the quieter side, at the end of a long corridor which, while Ben traverses it, remains completely deserted. The tourists are always paying extra for their rooms with Strip views, as though there’s something desirable about the sound of blaring car horns and the shimmer of gas fumes in the air, but Ben thinks that the rooms on this side of the hotel must be much nicer, with uninterrupted views out over the desert and the mountains beyond, offering a glimpse of serenity from the midst of chaos.</p><p>When he finds her door, he stops, his eyes roaming across the black-stained wood. It seems strange to him that something so insubstantial, so dull, could hold back someone so vibrant as the woman he’d met earlier that evening. Not for the first time, he feels a ripple of his dad’s famous wanderlust echoing down through his genes. </p><p>Han had always said how strange he found it that humans were so eager to entomb themselves in lifeless, little boxes of their own design, then slave away for the rest of their lives just to keep themselves trapped there. He had never been happier than when he was off travelling the world or regaling Ben and his mom with stories of the far-off places he’d seen and the weird and wonderful people he’d met. Ben had hardly been able to wait to grow up and join him. He just hadn’t realised how cruelly circumstance was going to force their hands or how quickly the spark would fade from his dad’s eyes once his ‘Princess’ was no longer around to gently tease him about his itchy feet.</p><p>Ben pulls out the pen he’d quietly swiped from the check-in desk, while the receptionist was busy glaring at him, and turns over the piece of notepaper to its blank side. He hurriedly pens a message in his elongated, looping handwriting, lifting his head when someone comes out of a room about halfway along the corridor and watching from beneath the curtain of his hair until he’s certain they’re heading for the elevator lobby, before returning to the matter at hand. </p><p>Eventually, when he’s fairly satisfied with his choice of words, he crouches down to slide the slip of paper underneath the door. She’ll see it when she returns, when the party at the Galaxy Lounge has ended. His fingertips linger there for a moment, at the threshold, before he rises to his feet and retraces his steps to the elevators, his hands finding their usual roosts in his pockets once again, fingers curled around the shaft of the pen for the sake of feeling something solid and steady. </p><p>An odd combination of nerves and satisfaction swirl in his gut as the elevator hurtles him back towards Earth. He glances at himself in the mirrored wall opposite, the glow of white, vertical strip lights illuminating the mole-spangled skin of his long face, and watches the slight twitch beneath his left eye as a muscle in his cheek works anxiously. </p><p>He’s done everything he can do now. He’s left it up to her, how their story continues, <em>if</em> it continues. She had said she’d felt like his prey earlier that evening and he’s done the only thing he could think of to make it right; he’s handed her a weapon to wound him with, offered the hunted the chance to become the hunter. All he can do now is wait impatiently to learn what her choice is.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>“And, remember, your car is booked for eleven a.m., Miss Palpatine.”<p>“Hmm?” Rey asks absentmindedly, lifting her eyebrows as she looks up at the PA who’s walking beside her along the corridor towards her suite.</p><p>“Your car,” the woman replies, stuntedly. “Is booked for eleven.”</p><p>“Tomorrow?”</p><p>The woman nods, looking relieved that Rey is finally paying attention. Rey wonders how many times she’s tried to tell her this information during the elevator ride up from the Galaxy Bar and Lounge.</p><p>She’s felt distracted for the last three hours, ever since she’d found herself face to face with that man, the interloper, Ben Solo. Although she’d returned to her grandfather’s table after visiting the bar - the thing she’d been intending to do when she’d first risen from her seat, before she’d realised she was being followed - she hadn’t been able to focus on the conversation again in the slightest: not Hux’s ranting, Pryde’s political rhetoric or Snoke’s insidious whisperings. She’d sat with a glassy, far-away look in her eyes, remembering black hair and pale skin peppered with beauty marks, as she’d slowly sipped her Sidecar.</p><p>“Remind me what it’s for again,” Rey says hesitantly, putting out a hand to slow the PA down a little. </p><p>“Your dress fitting...”</p><p>“Oh,” Rey replies. “<em>Oh!</em> Is that tomorrow? I’d forgotten.”</p><p>The PA looks at her with an expression which isn’t quite pity but comes painfully close. Rey hides a grimace as she carries on walking. </p><p>“And what about afterwards? I’ve got a meeting in the afternoon, haven’t I?” It’s easier to think about business than...</p><p>“Yes, Miss Palpatine.”</p><p>“Rey.” Rey cuts in.</p><p>“Rey,” the PA repeats slowly, testing the feel of the name on her tongue. Rey can tell it isn’t a comfortable fit for her but she doesn’t complain. “You have a meeting at three p.m. with Lucy Stynnix - the Assistant Manager…” Rey gives an appreciative nod for the clarification. She’s only been in Las Vegas for two days and she’s still trying to wrap her head around the chain of command in this behemoth of a business, the desert jewel in the crown of her grandfather’s empire of hotels. It can’t be too different from the Empire, Park Lane, where she cut her teeth in hotel management, can it? “...about next quarter’s sales strategy.”</p><p>Rey takes a deep breath. Sales strategy. It’s a blissfully dull, wonderfully familiar subject and, if anything will see her through the morning, it’s the knowledge that she has something to look forward to that she can tackle with her eyes closed.</p><p>“Thank you…” She trails off, realising she doesn’t know the PA’s name.</p><p>“Ms. Kandia,” the woman replies tentatively. “Er… Tish.”</p><p>“Thank you, Tish.”</p><p>They’ve reached the door to her suite now and Rey pulls her key card out of her little, white clutch purse. </p><p>“Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss… Rey?” Tish asks, correcting herself at the last moment.</p><p>Rey presses her card into the key slot and waits for the light to flash green before turning to Tish with a closed-lip smile and shaking her head. </p><p>“No, that’s all. Goodnight.”</p><p>She spots the square of white against the black tiled floor almost as soon as she pushes her door open and freezes on the spot while Tish wishes her a pleasant evening and begins to retreat down the hall. Something about that folded piece of paper sends shivers racing up and down Rey’s spine. Stepping through the doorway, careful not to stand on it in case it shatters into a thousand pieces and floats away, Rey waits until she can hear Tish rounding the corner at the other end of the long corridor, to disappear into the elevator lobby, before she stoops to pick it up.</p><p>The door swings shut behind her with a slam as Rey wanders sightlessly into her suite. Her eyes are glued to the piece of paper in her hands and the beautiful, cursive handwriting she can see peeking out from inside where one corner has folded back on itself.</p><p>Even before she opens it, she thinks she might know who placed it there, for her to find.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
  <em>Rey, </em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>I want to believe that you showed me your name in the hope that I would find you, in the hope that I wouldn’t give up. </em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>Between you and me, I know a lot about hope. </em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>You were right when you said I didn’t belong at that party. I don’t belong in your world, Rey. I’m nothing. I’m no one from nowhere. I’m not special. I’m just a scoundrel who’s built a life on hope, who saw a glimpse of you through the darkness and couldn’t bear to look away.</em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>So now I’m going to put some of that hope to good use and hope that you’ll find me, hope that you won’t give up.</em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk in front of the Bellagio tonight, until the end of the last fountain show. I hope to see you there.</em>
</p>
  <p>
  <em>Ben</em>
</p>
</blockquote><p>Rey’s heart is thundering in her chest as she rereads the note. She rips open her purse and pulls her phone out. The digits of the clock read <em>23:23</em>. The last Bellagio fountain show is at midnight. Thirty seven minutes. It’s not long.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>* * *</p>
</div>This is reckless. This is stupid. This is <em>insane</em>. She doesn’t know this man. He could be anyone. He’s said himself that he’s a scoundrel. She should just turn around and go back to her rooms, screw up the note, which is now pressed safely into the case of her phone, and drop it in the nearest rubbish bin. She should just <em>forget him</em>. But she can’t.<p>She isn’t sure what made him linger in her thoughts all night long, what’s making her ignore every piece of sensible, rational advice she’s ever given herself. It must be the same thing that made her trace those three little letters into the misted, glass surface of the lounge doors, even though she’d spelled out, not two minutes earlier, exactly why it was a bad idea for her to give him her name. She wonders if it’s something akin to the urge which had made him follow her in the first place, the pressing feeling that they were <em>supposed</em> to meet.</p><p>Rey gives a little snort and shakes her head. She’s being ridiculous. She doesn’t believe in ‘supposed to’ - but she doesn’t turn around. She carries on walking through the casino to the front lobby - still bustling, even at this hour - then onwards towards the revolving doors that lead out onto the Strip. She pulls her grey hood lower over her face as she slips unnoticed past the concierge desk, falling into step behind a bellboy, who’s making his way back out towards the covered driveway, then breaking away before he can turn to address her. </p><p>No one stops her. No one recognises her. The unassuming jeans, hoodie and leather jacket she changed into before leaving have made sure of that.</p><p>Her white McQ plimsolls squeak against the polished, black limestone of the pavement as she hurries towards the row of cabs queued up at the end of the driveway. She hails the first one and, slipping into the rear seat, tells the driver, “The Bellagio, please.” </p><p>There’s a flicker in the man’s eyes as he studies her face in the rear-view mirror which makes her think he might be trying to place her face but, if he does put two and two together, he doesn’t say anything. Rey is grateful. She doesn’t want to get into a conversation at the moment. Her heart is still pummelling the inside of her ribcage, she can hear the blood rushing in her ears and all she can do is watch the minutes tick by on her phone screen as the taxi starts weaving its way through the traffic of the Strip.</p><p>Fourteen minutes to go.</p><p>There’s a new red light at every intersection, as though Las Vegas is determined to flaunt its bottomless mine of rubies. Rey’s foot jiggles impatiently in the rear footwell.</p><p>Nine minutes to go.</p><p>What is she doing? This is dangerous. This guy - Ben - has already proven that he can sneak into a guest-list-only party, right under the nose of her grandfather’s most trusted security guards, then track down where she is staying in one of the most secure hotels in the world. She should be phoning the police and reviewing the Empire’s security systems, not anxiously counting down the minutes until she can see him again. Especially not when no one knows where she’s going or who she’s meeting. If they find her body discarded in the desert in a few days time, there will be no one to blame but herself.</p><p>The cab signals to turn left into the Bellagio’s long, semi-circular driveway. There’s still time for her to change her mind.</p><p>Four minutes to go.</p><p>“Anywhere here is fine,” she says, her eyes trained on the crowd gathered around the fountain. They’re waiting for the show to begin.</p><p>The taxi eventually pulls over near the foot of the skybridge, having eked every last cent out of the fare.</p><p>Two minutes to go.</p><p>“That’ll be twenty four dollars, Ma’am.”</p><p>Rey thrusts two twenty dollar bills at the driver as she begins to clamber away across the back seats. </p><p>One minute.</p><p>The car door slams behind her but Rey is already racing down the path, dodging people and suitcases as she bounds towards the pedestrian crossing. <em>Another</em> red light greets her and she skids to a stop at the curb with a frustrated little growl as she narrowly stops herself from barrelling straight into the path of a turning car.</p><p>The fountain show is beginning now. She can hear the first lilting notes of the music - “Your Song”, Rey recognises - and feel the soft spray of the water being blown towards her on the desert breeze. It would be romantic, she thinks, if her throat wasn’t tight with anxiety. </p><p>The crowd on the other side of the pedestrian crossing isn’t as thick as it probably would have been earlier in the evening but there are still a lot of people milling around and she doesn’t know <em>where</em> on the sidewalk she should even begin to look for him. “Your Song” isn’t <em>that</em> long and there must be over a thousand feet to cover between where she is now and the other end of the lake. There’s a very real chance that she’s going to miss him, that he’s going to think she didn’t want to see him again, that he’ll give up hope.</p><p>The crosswalk symbol moves to green and Rey bursts out of the little huddle of people that have congregated around her as they waited to walk. There aren’t many people coming towards her - most have stopped to watch the water show - and it gives Rey a slight advantage as she moves quickly along the sidewalk, her eyes scanning the crowd for a white shirt, black hair and strong features to match the ones imprinted on her memory. </p><p>Her hood has fallen down somewhere on her journey from the Empire and the breeze plays with her hair, tugging it across her face at inopportune moments. She lifts a hand to her head, raking her hair back from her forehead as she peers around.</p><p>A palm leaf rose seller makes as though to approach her but seems to decide better of it and backs away to ask a young couple if they’d like to buy one of his creations instead. Rey darts around them, her arm brushing against the woman’s faux-fur sleeve.</p><p>She’s near the centre of the lake now and she hasn’t seen him anywhere. </p><p>
  <em>I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss…</em>
</p><p>Where is the time going? The song is already almost two thirds of the way through. </p><p>She presses onwards, towards Caesars' Palace, skirting around a thick knot of people who must be standing dead centre to get the best view of the show. Someone backs heavily into her and she has to put out her hand to catch herself on a parked motorcycle. She looks up with a glare, expecting an apology, but, when it isn’t forthcoming, she just gives a little huff and starts walking again. She doesn’t have time for displays of indignation. </p><p>
  <em>So excuse me forgetting…</em>
</p><p>The crowd is thinner towards the Caesar’s Palace end of the lake and Rey can move more easily along the sidewalk but she still can’t see who she’s looking for. She’s starting to feel desperate. </p><p>Perhaps he’s already gone. Perhaps he decided not to wait after all. Who knew how long that note had been sitting there on the floor of her room? It could have been hours ago that he left it there. Perhaps he’s had time to do a little research into her and her family and decided she’s not worth the hassle. </p><p>Perhaps it’s for the best. </p><p>Regardless, her heart sinks when the end of the pavement comes in sight. </p><p>He isn’t here.</p><p>“Are you following me?” a deep voice rumbles from behind her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Again, a massive thank you to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse17/pseuds/Erulisse17">Erulisse17</a> for beta reading and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_bitchcraft">dr_bitchcraft</a> for being my constant cheerleader.</p><p>Chapter 3 is already in the works, thanks to social distancing, so I might increase the posting schedule but we'll see how things go.</p><p>Please do let me know in the comments what you think so far and what (if anything) you're enjoying about this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts, theories and hopes for the rest of the fic! Also, please feel free to come and say hi on <a href="https://metallia2797.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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